


all the words we cannot say

by rosycheeked



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fix-It, Forgiveness, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosycheeked/pseuds/rosycheeked
Summary: Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt for four months, a week, and three days, after. And because Destiny, or Fate, or whoever-the-fuck is out there loves to make a mockery of Jaskier’s life, Geralt finds him again in Posada.FuckingPosada. Where it all began.(in which Geralt isn't good at words and he knows it. so he writes Jaskier a letter.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 350





	all the words we cannot say

**Author's Note:**

> hey.
> 
> in all honesty, I have no idea what I'm doing anymore, but I certainly didn't mean to join a new fandom, read a couple hundred fics in said fandom, and then drop all my WIPs to write an entire fic in that same damn fandom. and yet here we are.
> 
> my apologies for throwing the canon timeline completely out the window. what even is canon anyway? not this that's for sure.
> 
> the fact that the title of this _isn't_ a lyric from an amazing devil song is nothing short of a miracle. hope you enjoy.
> 
> E
> 
> *warning for a canon-typical amount of cursing*

Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt all the way down the mountain. He doesn’t see Geralt at the base, where a grazing Roach still waits. He wonders if he doesn’t see Geralt because Geralt doesn’t want to see him, or because he doesn’t want to see Geralt.

It’s both, he decides.

Jaskier doesn’t see Geralt for four months, a week, and three days, after. And because Destiny, or Fate, or whoever-the-fuck is out there loves to make a mockery of Jaskier’s life, Geralt finds him again in Posada.

Fucking _Posada_. Where it all began.

The scene is almost familiar, too: Jaskier is singing some light-hearted nonsense jig he’d penned a week before, and Geralt trudges in with his ever-permanent scowl and sits in the corner with his ale and broods.

Jaskier can almost pretend nothing has changed. (Everything has changed. No one’s throwing food at him now that he’s famous; no one’s leaving a berth around Geralt you could feel in the air; they’re both almost welcome now. It’s ironic, really.) Jaskier’s heart is beating so loudly he can feel it in his throat, and his voice wavers as Geralt—tries to catch his eye?

He looks away, strums a brief interlude, takes a few deep breaths. One moment of eye contact with Geralt will not undo all the boxing-up of his heartbreak he’s done these past few months, he tells himself. This is a lie.

It cannot be said that Jaskier, renowned bard, is not a stellar performer, though, so he plasters a smile on his face and belts out a refrain. He performs nearly a whole hour longer than he’d intended to, hoping Geralt would go. (Hoping he would stay. Maybe both.)

Unfortunately, Geralt has not gone anywhere when Jaskier is finished, having watched him with an intense sort of look in his eyes, head tilted, nursing the same ale. Like he was _listening_. 

Jaskier is—he’s paying it no heed. He is leaving, because one of them has to, seeing as if life could give Geralt one blessing—

Nope, he’s not going down that road again. Jaskier packs his lute, sweeps up the coin, picks up his bags, and makes for the door, only to find that Geralt is already standing there. Just wonderful.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier says, because he’ll be damned if he acknowledges Geralt after everything he’s done.

Ever predictably, Geralt does not budge from the doorway. “Jaskier,” he says, a in a rumbling timbre Jaskier has not missed, or dreamt about, or cried about—

(Lie, lie, lie. Let it be said that Jaskier is an excellent liar, if nothing else.)

“Jaskier, I—“ Geralt says again, and he’s trying to catch Jaskier’s eye again, and he can’t take it, he can’t.

He cuts Geralt off. “Don’t.”

It’s like Geralt’s strings have been cut. He sighs, then rummages in his bag for something. “All right, I won’t.”

“I’ll be going, then?” Jaskier pushes. His breaths are threatening to come in short bursts and he will lose all his composure then for sure.

“Can I say one thing?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods. He’s singing an old lullaby in his head right now to keep calm, which usually works. But it isn’t now, because Geralt’s expression has more emotion in it than Jaskier’s ever seen. He looks genuinely remorseful, and damn if that doesn’t hurt Jaskier all the more.

“Even if I never see you again,” Geralt murmurs, more gently than Jaskier had thought possible, “if life has given me one blessing, it has been you.”

Jaskier stops breathing.

“Take care, Jaskier,” Geralt tells him, hefting his swords onto his shoulder. He presses a sheet of parchment into one of Jaskier’s listless hands. And then he’s gone.

The lullaby has long stopped playing in his mind. Jaskier stands there at the door, his thoughts an endless stream of _what the fuck?_ and _was that actually Geralt?_ and _if life has given me one blessing, it has been you._

He would like to reiterate, actually: what the _fuck_?

Some part of Jaskier’s traitorous heart has already forgiven Geralt, just for this. For coming here and listening to his songs and telling him he cared, he cares, he’s always cared. But Jaskier can’t forgive Geralt so quickly, not when Geralt broke his heart. Not when he gave Geralt twenty years of his life, only to be reduced to nothing more than a blight on Geralt’s.

He can’t forgive Geralt. He loved (Lie. He loves) Geralt, certain as anything. And Geralt had dashed his heart against the rocks on a mountaintop like it meant nothing to him. Like Jaskier meant nothing to him.

He was angry, Jaskier’s traitorous heart says. Oh, but he knew what he was doing. He turned around, saw Jaskier, and his whole demeanor changed. Like Jaskier has been the one to screw him over.

No, he absolutely can _not_ forgive Geralt, even if he is the love of Jaskier’s life.

So of course Jaskier is already crying when he smooths out the parchment Geralt has given him and finds it’s a letter. 

In all-too-familiar handwriting, it reads, _Jaskier—_

And Jaskier knows why Geralt was so quick to go; Jaskier can never stop his own thirst to satisfy his curiosity. If he were sensible, he’d burn the letter now. He is not sensible. He is a hopeless romantic. He is a bard and a poet. He is full of fragile hope.

So Jaskier is already crying when he begins to read the letter Geralt has given him.

...

Jaskier—

I have never been particularly good with words. But I know I could never say aloud all the things I need to say to you, so here I am with page and ink. I can only hope that the words I have stored up all my life will be enough. I can only hope you will not tear this to pieces before reading it, that what I have said to you has not destroyed so much that you would not, at least, grant me this last wish to hear me out. For all the years you spent by my side. Please.

In essence, what I want to say is this: I am sorry, Jaskier. What I said on the mountain was unfair, and it was wrong. I meant it in the moment, but in every moment after I have regretted it. I have said such harsh things to you and you never held them against me, not once. I have laid awake at night and in the silence heard only the echoes of your voice. I am sorry for every time I treated you like you were lesser. You are far from that. I’m sorry for every time I belittled you.

It’s not like I have an excuse. I don’t expect forgiveness; I only wanted you to know.

The point is not how sorry I am. I cannot undo what has already been done, no matter how much I wish I could. This isn’t about me, this is about you.

You stood by my side when most of the world was against me. You followed me into dark and danger and forgave me all too easily. You alone chose me again and again, among all who’ve ever cared for me. No destiny tied you to me, and yet there you were, singing songs in my name. 

I would not wish for any companion but you, Jaskier. You have been my friend and more.

The point is not, however, that you are my friend, nor is it how much I have missed you—which I have, viscerally so.

How many of your songs were really about me? I have been listening to your ballads in taverns across the Continent—other bards’ renditions that do not even rival yours—and the lyrics, Jaskier. I have heard you sing them before, but I never listened to the words, not really. Not the love songs.

If I could sing your own songs back to you I would. Not the epic tales you’ve spun of our adventures. The ballads, the love songs, I’d sing them all to you as you have sung them to all the world but me.

The point is, really, how thankful I am to have met you. How grateful I am for all you’ve done for me: the songs, and the company, and the way you cared for me. Genuinely. Like I was a man, and not a monster. I’m a Witcher, Jaskier. No one has ever looked at me like you.

It is this: I am sorry, and I miss you, and I love you. It is that the years I had with you will always be the best of my life. In the end, this is not an apology, because I know I do not deserve to be forgiven.

This is a love letter.

...

Jaskier reads the letter once, then once more to make the words aren’t some sort of elaborate hallucination. He isn’t thinking straight; the sounds of the tavern have faded out, leaving only echoes of what Geralt had said, what he’d written, what he’d written to _Jaskier_. 

Not only has he missed Jaskier, said they’re friends, said he’s sorry—Geralt fucking _loves_ him. Jaskier is filled to the brim, suddenly, with a dozen unnameable emotions. He bites his lip. Geralt, a wordsmith. Geralt, who thinks he’s somehow unforgivable. 

Jaskier loves him too.

His hands are shaking as he folds the letter carefully, tucks it in his pocket, and stands from the table. Then it hits him. Geralt left. He’d given Jaskier the letter and just gone.

That just won’t do, not after everything. Jaskier hadn’t been planning on forgiving Geralt at all: the Witcher had blamed Jaskier for every single one of his life’s misfortunes, then told Jaskier he never wanted to see him again. But Jaskier can’t let Geralt leave thinking that Jaskier will never forgive him when he already has.

He runs out to the stable, where he finds a young stablehand, but no Roach.

“Can I help you, sir?” the boy asks.

Jaskier’s heart is pounding. How in the world is he going to catch up to Geralt if he’s riding Roach? “I’m looking for my friend, the Witcher that passed through here earlier, but he seems to have taken his horse and left, and now I don’t know how I’m going to find him after all, and I think he’s sort of running away from me but I need to tell him—“

“Sir,” the stablehand says calmly. So maybe Jaskier’s panicking a little bit. “You can borrow Aeris here, she’s plenty fast and no one will miss her so long as you bring her back before sunrise.” He gestures to a grey mare, already saddled and by the stable door. Like she’s waiting.

“Thank you,” Jaskier tells him, already mounting the horse, his lute slung across his back, belongings thrown in the saddlebags. There’s only one path from the inn that leads away from the town, and Jaskier’s urging Aeris to a gallop as soon as they’re out of the stable.

He’ll ride through the night if he has to, Geralt’s final words to him ringing in his ears. _If life has given me one blessing, it has been you._

 _This is a love letter,_ he’d written, and Jaskier can close his eyes and see the words trace themselves once more against the dark.

At a full gallop, it still takes Jaskier nearly an hour before he glimpses Geralt ahead of him. They’re surrounded by woods now, the dark thick and suffocating if not for the moonlight that filters in from above.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts. “Wait up!”

No response. Jaskier murmurs apologies and words of encouragement to poor Aeris as he presses her on even faster, skidding around a bend in the path as he comes up beside Geralt, who slows and turns to look at Jaskier as if he is a particularly difficult puzzle he cannot solve.

“You left,” Jaskier pants, “before I could say anything.”

Geralt’s expression, if it’s possible, darkens further. “I wasn’t aware you had anything to say.”

“You magnificent _idiot_ , Geralt, you can’t go writing me things like this and then expect me not to have anything to say in return!” Jaskier pulls the letter out of his pocket and shakes it at Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt says.

All right, it’s possible that calling him an idiot isn’t the best way to respond to a confession of love.

Jaskier swings himself off the horse, looking at Geralt expectantly before he follows suit, looking increasingly exasperated.

“Look, I came after you because I—you wrote all these things I never thought I’d hear you say and it’s—it’s so much more than I could have hoped for,” Jaskier says. It’s not enough. “You—you missed me, and you say we’ve been friends all this time, and I know you never really mean all the awful things you say, but—I really should be thanking you, Geralt. All these years beside you has made me into who I am today. There is no me without you.”

Jaskier tries not to be too affected by the way Geralt’s expression isn’t changing a bit no matter what he says. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and somehow that’s a whole reply in itself. “You shouldn’t—“

“I shouldn’t what? Forgive you? Care for you? I know the dangers by now, and I’ve stuck by you for as long as I’ve known you, and I’m not leaving you now I’ve just found you again. You deserve forgiveness just as much as I, you know.”

Geralt looks genuinely doubtful at that one. Jaskier takes a step closer. “You said you love me.”

And Geralt nods like he’s stepping up to a scaffold. Jaskier wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him till he understands how human he really is, how cared for.

“I love you too, you bastard,” Jaskier tells him. “And I missed you, and I forgive you, and I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the same as a letter, though—I can put this all down in writing, if you’d rather—“

Geralt cuts him off with another “Jaskier,” but this one sounds so very fond. This refrain, Jaskier decides, is infinitely better than “Hm” and “Fuck.” 

He wraps his arms around Geralt and holds him close, and he doesn’t even think he’s imagining it when Geralt sighs, a small contented sound.

They trot back to the inn side by side, Roach next to Aeris on the dirt path back through the woods.

“Where to next, then?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt turns and looks at Jaskier with a gaze most would find inscrutable but Jaskier—with no small amount of thrill—has finally managed to decipher. It’s all of the stoppered-up words he doesn’t say. It’s a quiet shout: love, love, love. It’s every one of Jaskier’s songs in his name, condensed into two amber eyes and a not-smile.

“Cintra,” Geralt replies, and it takes a second for Jaskier to parse all the layers of that answer.

He can’t hold back a grin. “Cintra it is!” he says.

“And then, perhaps, the coast,” Geralt continues, tilting his head towards Jaskier like he’s giving him a cue.

Jaskier could kiss Geralt just for that, but. He’s waited far too long already, he can wait just a bit longer.

“And then to the coast,” Jaskier echoes. “I’ll write you a ballad to sing to me.”

“You’ll do no such thing, bard,” says Geralt, and yes, this is how it’s going to be from now on, Jaskier thinks.

“Just imagine it: the Singing Witcher! The publicity will be amazing, Geralt, you’ll be known across the Continent for your slaying and singing of monsters both!” Jaskier laughs, and Geralt almost-smiles, and this is enough, it’s enough, it’s more than enough.

He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked it, please leave me kudos and perhaps a comment too? they are joy in its purest form. <3


End file.
